No Place to Hide
Marija Frantar summited Nanga Parbat with Jože Rozman on July 31, 1990. In 1991, Marija and Jože attempted Kanchenjunga. Near the summit they called base camp to say they were lost. Their bodies were found at 24,000 feet. Disoriented and exhausted, they had fallen to their deaths. SILVIJ MOROJNA
Bellingham, Washington: August, 1991
“MARIJA AND JOŽE ARE DEAD?” I think the words and then repeat them out loud to myself. Spoken, they sound painfully true. I sit down and reread the letter, then refold it and replace it in its envelope. Holding the envelope gently, I stare at the floor. In my mind I see Kanchenjunga, the mountain that killed them. I recall from a photograph that it’s broad and narrow, covered in chaotic broken glaciers, with three distinct summits. My eyes move to the window where summer’s rays are already heating a fine day.
“It can’t be.”
It is 6:45 in the morning, and I am at the guide service office to meet my six-day mountaineering class. I stand and tuck the envelope into the top of my backpack.
“They’re just someplace better now.” I think to myself. “I bet that Marija convinced Jože to go down the other side of the mountain and join a Buddhist monastery. I can see her doing that. That would be fun to hear about. Eight, ten years … they’ll be back.”
I step out onto the stairs and greet the first of my students.
Bellingham, Washington: June, 1992
“Mugs is gone.”
At first I can’t absorb the words. The door to the red van is drawn open, throwing sunlight across thin vinyl seats bolted school-bus style to a bruised metal floor. I sit quietly in the back, an exhausted youth struggling between testosterone-surges of arrogance and powerful doses of mountain-induced humility. Julie Cheney-Culberson, Matt’s wife, looks tiny in the doorway.
“Matt.” She pauses to look him in the face. Matt has drawn a tense breath. Tears well up in her eyes. “Mugs is gone, Matt. Mugs is gone.”
Mugs was one of the best alpinists in America. His Cassin Ridge solo eventually would inspire my own Alaskan climbs. He fell into a crevasse while guiding Denali. He walked up to the crevasse edge to make a routine route-finding decision. He didn’t have a belay. His clients were unable to extract him.
Matt goes to her, both needing and providing comfort. Uncomfortable, I slip out unnoticed. “Mugs Stump? Dead?” I think. “That shouldn’t happen. Not like that.”
Soon I’m walking downhill, toward Tony’s Coffee House, wondering if that cute brunette I met last week might be working today. “Yeah, this is the same day, same time, as last week.” I take off down the sidewalk, a renewed purpose to my step.
Skagit, Washington: August 11, 1993
“This will just take a minute,” I announce to the van full of mountaineering students as I pull into a familiar gas station parking lot. “Why don’t you guys get some ice cream. I need to call the office to let them know we’re down and safe.”
I drop 35 cents into the phone, it rings twice. “Hello?” I ask when I don’t hear the normally cheerful “American Alpine Institute” greeting on the line.
“Hello. Who’s this?” comes the reply.
“Hi Sheilagh, it’s Steve. I’m just calling to let you know we’re off Mount Baker and heading your way.”
The voice on the other end of the line is quaking as she starts. “Steve, it’s Julie. We just found out. Julie’s dead.”
“How?” I demand. I had just seen Julie earlier this week.
“She and Matt went up to Canada. We don’t have any details yet. I only know that they fell down the Aemmer Couloir on Mount Temple. Matt is badly hurt, but he’s going to be okay.”
I hang up the phone and walk back to the van. The climbing stories I read as a youth had been full of avalanches, rock fall, crevasses, storms, exhaustion, and extreme altitude. Men – for they were mostly men – succeeding, but also failing and dying. It’s not just a story anymore.
Dexter Falls, Ouray, Colorado: February 25, 1995
I hear the growl of the falling stone before I see it. “Rock!” I scream. “Lean in. Lean in!”
Dan and Caroll both lean into the ice. Dan is turned towards me and I see the fear reflected in his eyes. Behind Dan, Caroll faces straight in, his nose to the ice, his hands gripping the ice screws at our belay stance. I smash my body into the ice, and I lift my head in time to see the rock spinning assuredly, fatefully towards Caroll. Caroll senses it, I think, because just then he looks up.
I see the rock, but there is no time to feel anything. It is roughly the size and shape of a small microwave oven. It is dark, dark brown, nearly black. One end of it is crusted with shiny dark mud that had been holding it to the mountain. The mud is laced with crystals from the morning’s frost. The rock is more trapezoid than square. Bits of snow spin off of it as it flies. It smashes into Caroll’s helmet. The corner of the trapezoid goes into the turquoise blue helmet. Caroll is gone.
“Caroll!” Dan and I both scream. Caroll isn’t at the rappel station anymore. One of the ice screws we had placed for our anchor is bent or broken; I can’t tell. There is a flap of webbing that should be part of our anchor, swinging impotently between us. A broken carabiner lies on the foot-wide ledge where Caroll had been standing.
I look down. Caroll is sprawled in steep snow 30 feet below, unanchored, and 10 feet away from a sheer 120-foot drop to the base of Dexter Falls, a moderate ice climb an easy hour’s walk from the highway. He isn’t moving. There is no sound.
In earning my alpine guide’s certification I had trained for emergencies like this. I had hoped that they would never happen to me. But I always suspected that if I stayed in it long enough they would. My training takes over: take care of the survivors, allow no more victims. I rebuild the anchor. One ice screw is still good. I replace the damaged one with a new screw. Tears are streaming down Dan’s face as I clip him to the new anchor. I rig the rappel rope and descend to Caroll.
“Don’t hurry, Steve.” I recite to myself the mantra of the rescuer, “You don’t have any time to waste.” When I get to Caroll he is motionless but breathing deep, irregular, labored breaths.
“Caroll! Caroll!” I yell.
Dan hangs in his harness, his forehead against the ice. He is sobbing quietly. Besides Caroll’s heavy breathing, it is the only sound I hear. I shake Caroll’s shoulder. No response. I attach his harness to mine to ensure he doesn’t roll off the ice cliff.
His helmet is split open, sliced like a pie. The sharp tip of the broken plastic is smeared with an opaque, gooey red. There is a sharp odor I’ve never smelled before. Pungent, like dilute ammonia. Gently, I reach down and remove the helmet. He groans, but the helmet is loose and slips off easily.
Holding his head out of the snow I see that the backside of his skull is strangely flattened and covered in thick blood blended with an opaque gel and clumped strands of hair. I start to touch and press around the wound. It is soft. My stomach turns. I see all of this as if I’m a distant observer.
“Do something! Help him!” my mind screams. I place a big roll of gauze onto the wound and use another roll to secure it to his head. I put his helmet back on to hold the compress. I pull out a long piece of cord, double it, and tie a knot near the center, improvising a system for us to rappel simultaneously.
“Let’s go Caroll.” I kneel and place his right arm over my shoulder and grab his harness with my free hand. Standing, I tip him up. He is heavy, but once he’s up, his legs seem to hold him. I gently move his body back down the slope to a position where he is half hanging on the rope, half standing. He is rigid but unstable, and I hold his harness firmly to keep him upright and keep pushing him against the rappel device. I step to his right. I see eyes under lids that are heavy, almost completely shut. I get behind him and grab hold of his climbing harness with my left hand. My right controls the rappel and I let slip a few inches of rope to get us moving downhill.
He grunts, and I lower a few more feet, gaining speed now. With sudden strength Caroll twists towards me swinging at me with closed fists. I am in close, almost to his chest and his blows swing wide and round to hit the back of my head. I feel like bawling, crying at this betrayal. I look up at Dan as Caroll hits me again and again. Dan looks away. Just then, Caroll hits me in the side of the face with his elbow. He is pushing in all directions. He levers himself out of my grasp and knocks himself down into the snow.
“Caroll! Dammit! Stand up!” Dan suddenly yells. I look up at Dan, his face a red mass of tears and terror.
A thought flashes in my head: Caroll’s combativeness is a result of the head wound. I reach for his harness. He is bigger than I am. I pull and he doesn’t budge. I am mad now. I work under him again, forcing my arm into the snow beneath him, and then with a heave, I thrust him into a standing position and for a moment he stands on his own.
I step back, moving us a few feet down. My crampon scrapes at something. It is dark brown. Partially covered in the snow it looks almost black. I push at it with my foot. The rock is very heavy. It is more of a trapezoid than a square.
For a moment Caroll is motionless. His lids are raised now and he is looking at me with eyes that no longer see: unfocused, dark eyes. Before he can strike at me, his unknown attacker, I shove him down the hill. The harness catches his weight as I lower us down the rappel line.
I have myself rigged just below him, so I swing down, adding my own weight to the anchor. Capitalizing on our momentum, I move down into position and wrap my arm around his middle to get a strong grip on the front of his harness. I lean against the rope and pull Caroll down the slope with me.
The top of the ice wall drops off and Caroll’s weight is fully on his harness now. This makes it easier to control our descent. Still he rages, thrashing and punching. His harness keeps him facing up and I am held just below and behind him, coincidentally sheltered from his blows. Time recovers its normal scale and within a few seconds we are safely on the ground.
“Dan!” I yell. “You must rappel down to us now.”
I hear nothing. I test the ropes with a light grip to see if he is rigging his rappel device a 120 feet above us. The rope is still.
“Dan! Come. Down.” I pause and there is no response. “Do. You. Hear. Me?”
Still no reply, but the rope shakes a little and I know he is starting down. Slowly, bravely, he makes his way down the rope to us.
“Over there. Help me,” I command as we each lift Caroll by an arm and half carry, half drag him off to the far side of the waterfall, clear of the possibility of more falling rocks. Dan sits with his legs outstretched and holds Caroll’s head in his lap; his hand over the gauze.
“You stay here. I’m running out to get help.” It’s only 1 pm. Search and Rescue will get here soon and we’ll get Caroll out of here and to the hospital. Caroll’s breathing is deep and regular now, his chest rising and falling peacefully. Dan is crying again.
“You’re doing good, Steve.” Dan stutters through his tears, and wipes his nose on a sleeve. “This is just a bad hair day. Caroll will be alright.” I wince at the poor timing of his favorite saying.
As I run down the trail I can’t shake the vision: The black hair gelled into thick strands. The opaque, viscous fluid mixed with blood. Some of it almost clear, some pink, some dark red. The softness I felt when I pressed on the white edge of his fractured skull. When I let go, startled, how more gel and blood came up. I tried to push it back in. But the hair was matted. Black, thick strands of unclean hair.
It is my turn to stand in front of the church congregation in Charlotte, North Carolina, 10 days later. Caroll had died in the ICU, four days after the accident. I had watched as his wife’s hand shook so hard she couldn’t legibly sign the order to terminate life support.
I walk toward the pulpit and look out across hundreds of faces and realize just how out of my element I am. A young, white, atheist mountain guide from Washington state standing in front of a congregation of Southern Baptists. I am 24 years old and have never bought alcohol without being carded. Today I’m wearing my sport coat and my one necktie for only the second time. The first had been my senior prom six years earlier.
I wish I could tell them about the black, secret pride worn by those climbers still living. How we share knowing glances among us when one of our brothers dies. I want to deride the outsiders – or those wishing to justify their decision not to climb – who are quick to point out how suddenly death can come to an alpinist.
“You never know who will be next! You might be next!” they cry.
This is true. I justify continuing to climb, my comrades’ deaths notwithstanding, by attempting to learn the lessons of their fatal errors. But this time the errors are mine, and Caroll is dead. I cry for Caroll, but mostly for myself. Before I was better, smarter, stronger. Luckier.
But I wasn’t. I’m not. I shouldn’t be alive. Tears stream down my cheeks for this injustice. There is no place to hide.
“I am Steve House.” My too loud voice booms and cracks over the speakers. I step back a little. “I’m the certified alpine climbing guide who was there with Caroll in Colorado.”
Though nothing I might have done would have held that nearly black stone in place, I want to tell them how I feel that I fell short as a mountain guide: not giving sufficient weight to the warming temperature, not cracking the whip a little harder when Caroll and Dan got a late start. I wish I could explain these transgressions. I can’t ask for their forgiveness when I can’t make them understand my sins.
“I climbed with Caroll many times over the last few years.” I blink away a few tears and gather enough courage to continue. “I know he loved climbing, that he was at peace when he was in the mountains. If it’s any consolation to you all, I think that his last days were joyous ones.” I step away from the microphone, hating this justification. Death is death. Irrevocable. Forever.